"His own novel," interrupted my father. "/Contentus peragis!/"

During the latter part of this dialogue, Blanche had sewn together three
quires of the best Bath paper, and she now placed them on a little table
before me, with her own inkstand and steel pen.

My mother put her finger to her lip, and said, "Hush!" my father returned
to the cradle of the AEsas; Captain Roland leaned his cheek on his hand,
and gazed abstractedly on the fire; Mr. Squills fell into a placid doze;
and, after three sighs that would have melted a heart of stone, I rushed
into--MY NOVEL.




CHAPTER II.

"There has never been occasion to use them since I've been in the
parish," said Parson Dale.

"What does that prove?" quoth the squire, sharply, and looking the parson
full in the face.

"Prove!" repeated Mr. Dale, with a smile of benign, yet too conscious
superiority, "what does experience prove?"

"That your forefathers were great blockheads, and that their descendant
is not a whit the wiser."